Inked Into My Skin
by FroggyDarren
Summary: "You're pack," they tell him. "You're human, but you're still pack, Stiles." When he's caught up in the fray of whatever supernatural chaos that is invading the town, there's no way to have tokens of the things he cares about most without the risk of losing them. So he does it the one way that he can think of: ink under his skin. Only, being pack makes some of them more special.
1. Fixed Point

_Stiles has drawn the tattoo design months ago. He wanted to get one before he ever mentioned it to anyone. All he needs is to be eighteen so that his father's approval isn't necessary - though that doesn't mean Stiles doesn't want it._  
Aka: How Stiles got his first tattoo.

* * *

The first time he brings it up to his Dad, the answer is simple.

"No."

Stiles tries to protest, tries to plead his case, but the Sheriff doesn't budge. It's only months before Stiles' eighteenth birthday, but bringing that up earns him a weekend's worth of being grounded. The ink has to wait, though. He spends days tracing the letters, the simple curve of the C and the more flourished one of the S behind it. There is research that he's done, of course there is, because Stiles doesn't do anything without looking at all options.

He wanted to use her handwriting, but decided against it in the end. Despite his Dad's insistence that he's too young to know what he wants, Stiles _does know_. He wants her with him, wants to have a mark that will remind him, wants to carry her with him at all times. So when the few months pass, he drags a protesting Scott to a dirty little dive that someone recommended, a different one to the place where Scott got his unsuccessful tattoo.

"Stiles, I…" Scott eyes him warily, palm on the spot where his own mark is underneath his jacket and shirt.

"You knew then, didn't you?" Stiles asks, not without a little frustration at how he's being questioned. "Have you regretted it since?"

"No," Scott shakes his head. "Okay," he nods then, like he's resigned.

It doesn't hurt, nowhere near as much as what he's already gone through, and the buzzing of the tattoo gun lulls Stiles' mind. He may have panicked at the needle going into Scott's arm back when Scott got his tattoo, but it turns out that he's become more resilient and used to the sight of the needle since then. The process is over fast and he gets the instructions to care for it, then gets a peek at the raw spot on his ribs. It looks only a little like the design he put together but he knows it needs to heal.

"Any regrets?" Scott asks when Stiles squirms in his seat on the drive back.

"Nope," Stiles answers immediately. "Maybe about bringing you with, you drive too slowly, man."

"Do you really want to get to Derek's this fast, with fresh blood on you?" Scott smirks. "You know he'll go into panic mode immediately, right?"

"Fuck you," Stiles grumbles when the truth of the words registers. "He will have to deal. It's my skin."

"Exactly," Scott remarks and ignores Stiles' inquiring gaze until they get past the town limits back in Beacon Hills.

It takes about five seconds from the moment that they cross the threshold of Derek's new place before Stiles is pressed against a wall by an angry werewolf.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Derek growls.

"Nothing, _god_, I'm fine," Stiles sighs, and then reaches down to tug on the bottom of his hoodie. "I'm not hurt, Derek."

"There's blood _somewhere_, Stiles, and unless you have something to share about genders…" Derek breathes in and then freezes, his fingers still curled around Stiles' arms. "That's … _what_ did you do?"

"Oh, the wolf finally stopped to smell the _ink_, too?"

"Don't be sassy."

"You mean, don't be _me_?" Stiles smirks, and hears Scott chuckle lightly from the other side of the room.

Finally, Derek moves away a little and Stiles pulls his hoodie up, revealing the bandage on his new tattoo.

"Can't take this off just yet," he shrugs, "but when it's healed, I can give you a show, sourwolf."

Derek growls quietly in response, but he steps away and takes his hands off Stiles.

"A little warning would have been nice," Derek says then, already walking back to the couch, "you know, next time you plan on coming in here smelling of blood."

"Aw, I didn't know you cared," Stiles smirks.

He's still leaning against the wall that he was pressed into moments earlier, but his limbs don't seem to be willing to cooperate when he tries to move. There's a low thrum of ache under the bandage that's covering his tattoo, though it's not strong enough to warrant his inability to walk. But now that Derek's hands are no longer on him, Stiles feels odd, like he can't hold himself up properly. Finally, he pushes off the wall, but the moment the support of it is gone, he's swaying and dizzy.

"Whoa," he lets out quietly and reaches behind himself to steady his body.

Scott almost immediately shoots out of the chair he was making himself comfortable in, and he's by Stiles' side in a few long strides.

"You okay? Did he…" Scott starts but before he can finish, Stiles shakes his head.

"No, no, I'm fine, Scott, just got dizzy. You know me and my coordination, that's totally not changed," he rambles, immediately feeling the embarrassment causing his cheeks to heat up.

"Stiles," Scott asks with a warning in his voice, obviously knowing that Stiles is trying to lie.

"It's fine, Scott, I promise," Stiles adds, already feeling steadier.

He hopes that he's sounding more convincing this time. Or at least that Scott's habit of having a short attention span has not suddenly gotten lost, and that he can get away with the white lie.

"Does it hurt?" Scott asks after a moment of silence and nods towards the bandage, still peeking from underneath the hoodie.

"Nothing I can't handle," Stiles says with a smirk.

"That's not as reassuring as you might think, dude," Scott rolls his eyes.

"I have a feeling telling Dad will be worse than this."

"Dude, wait, you told me he was okay with this!" Scott tenses. "He's gonna _kill me_."

"He will not," Stiles says firmly.

He moves over to the couch and hisses when he slumps into the cushions of Derek's sofa.

"Well, no, wait, I don't know if he has any wolfsbane bullets from Chris," he adds offhandedly to Scott.

The moment Scott's face falls and Stiles sees the panic rise through his friend, he also hears a chuckle from the direction that Derek's sitting in. That adds to Stiles' own amusement at Scott's nervousness, and he doesn't bother trying to offer words of reassurance. Hell, for all he knows, his Dad will find a way to blame _Derek_ for Stiles' tattoo, and Scott should know by now that he'll escape the Sheriff's wrath unscathed.

He's proven right when he eventually gets home, the tattoo still fresh, but the ache gone. Instead, Stiles gets found out sooner than he planned to because it starts itching and he can't help resting his hand on top of the bandage.

"I thought the monsters of the week took a break," his Dad remarks when Stiles squirms in his chair as they're eating dinner. "Is there something I should be aware of?"

Stiles freezes and replies, "no, Dad, it's nothing," a little too fast, earning himself a raised eyebrow.

"Really, it's nothing dangerous, no supernatural creeps anywhere in Beacon Hills."

"Now, we both know that's not true," John says in a dry tone, "since your best friend hasn't magically turned human, as far as I'm aware. And Derek's still in town, too, with the pack."

"Okay, nothing _unwelcome_ and supernatural is anywhere in Beacon Hills," Stiles says with a sigh.

"Uh-huh," John nods unconvincingly. "So what is it then that's got you so jumpy?"

"Dad, come on, when am I ever _not_ jumpy?"

"This is a different kind of jumpy, though, son," the Sheriff frowns. "This is 'I've done something stupid and ended up hurt' kind of skittish."

"Dad," Stiles groans.

"_Stiles_," John mimics and smirks, but the frown doesn't disappear from his face.

Stiles finally sighs and leans back in his chair before he speaks.

"Okay, promise me you're not going to freak out?"

"Yeah, because you opening with that is totally not a reason to be concerned."

"Do you want to know or do you just want to be a smart-ass, Dad?"

"Hey, kid, watch your language," John narrows his eyes. "You might be eighteen, but that's no reason to…" he stops and his eyes widen. "Okay, hold on, you're eighteen."

"Really, Dad? I didn't notice, is that what the big party last week was about? You know, with the _eighteen_ candles on the cake and all."

"Don't be a smart-ass," John says shortly. "This isn't going to be about you dating Derek or something, is it?"

Stiles almost spits out the drink he was just trying to gulp down and coughs when some of it manages to go down the wrong way.

"What? Dad, _no_, why would you even think that?"

The Sheriff shakes his head, but doesn't answer. Before Stiles can even try asking again, though, his Dad gives him a glare that is a clear indication that Stiles should spill the beans.

"Okay, really, though, I'm eighteen now so this was totally my right to do, just so we're clear," Stiles starts to ramble while he's tugging on the shirt covering up the bandage. "So I don't want to hear anything about rash decisions, since I've been planning to do this for at least a year now, as you know."

Finally, he manages to pull the shirt up and tries not to wince when he tugs to remove the tape off his skin. He can feel his Dad's eyes on him, but doesn't look up until the tattoo is revealed. The edges are still red, but the blood that seeped to the surface is clotted and mostly dry.

"Stiles," the Sheriff breathes out, his eyes wide as he takes in the curves of the letters.

"I know you said no first, but," Stiles starts, then pauses to take a steadying breath before he launches into a stuttered explanation. "I wanted to have her close, somehow. After everything, this was the one way I could think of that I couldn't lose."

"It's … oh god, I want to be angry at you, son," John whispers after a small pause. "I can't though. You know I thought, when you mentioned a tattoo, I thought it was going to be a pack thing. Something that you might want to leave behind at some point, with college and everything. This is…"

Stiles can see the tears building in his Dad's eyes and his own start stinging at the sight.

"Dad, don't start crying now, or I will too," he tries to chastise his Dad but there is no heat in his words.

"It's your own fault, kid," John replies with a smile matching the one that tugs on Stiles' lips.

"So I take it you're not going to attempt to parent me and ground me for this?" Stiles asks and waves towards the fresh tattoo.

"Not like that would work anyway," Stiles' Dad says with resignation lacing his tone. "But no, I won't. I'd have come with you, if you'd told me."

"Next time, okay?"

"Wait, are you _already_ planning another one? Should I book you a cell at the station for when you're the picture of an outlaw?"

Stiles rolls his eyes at his Dad's laughter and teasing and then looks down at the black ink. He's not thinking of getting another one _just yet_, but the sight of the mark on his skin does make him wonder for a moment how a triskele would look on his pale skin.

"Not quite yet," he says instead of voicing those thoughts. "Let me survive the healing process of this one first."

"Good luck with _not_ scratching it when it starts to itch," John smirks. "I may not have one of my own, but I've dealt with enough people going through that."

"I'll just," Stiles waves towards the stairs, "go put the salve on, okay?"

He rushes to his bedroom and wipes the sensitive and still irritated skin off gently, and then tugs the tub he was given at the tattoo parlor out of his backpack. When his fingers rub over the letters, he smiles, knowing that he's made the right decision.


	2. Be Underneath Your Skin

_Derek interlude - accompanying Fixed Point, Derek's reaction to Stiles getting the first tattoo._

* * *

Arms and legs and flailing. That's the first thing that comes to Derek's mind when Stiles is brought up in any sort of way in a conversation. It's usually followed up by the memory of Stiles' voice, the incessant rambling and stream-of-consciousness rants about everything.

He can't help but tense whenever Stiles gets close - Derek's idea of close, which is usually about a mile away. He can't stop the anxiousness and worry. The one human in his pack - yes, Stiles _is_ pack, has been from the beginning, sometimes more than any of the other wolves - who has a tendency to run into things head-first, to not think of himself and just how breakable he is. So when there's any sign of danger, any tiniest hint of an injury or pain, Derek panics.

Scott knows. So does Isaac. Really, they all know, because the wolves can sense Derek's nervousness, and Lydia and Kira have intuition that almost reaches the one that Laura used to have around her brother. They _mostly_ don't say anything, but Derek feels their stares even when they all think they're being subtle.

So when Scott and Stiles pull up at the apartment, the first thing that Derek focuses on is the way Scott radiates worry, which immediately puts Derek on alert. It's not until they walk through the door though, that he smells the faint trace of blood, not fresh enough to make him panic but strong enough to move towards Stiles without thinking about it. He tries to pinpoint where the smell is coming from, but the scent is muddled with something else, something that Derek thinks he should recognize but doesn't.

"...I'm fine," he hears Stiles say, his tone exasperated and not at all amused like usually. "I'm not hurt, Derek," reaches Derek's ears but doesn't do much to ease the anxiety.

What does, though, is the recognition of the other smell, the one underlying the scent of blood that triggered Derek's reaction. It's then that he realizes just how close he is to Stiles, and he pulls away slowly, with more reluctance than he'd be willing to admit.

"_What_ did you do?" Derek growls as the familiar - now that he has managed to figure it out - scent of fresh ink takes over.

Of course, Stiles doesn't miss the chance to sass Derek, he never does. Derek can hear and feel Scott's amusement from across the room and he doesn't have to look around to know that Scott is smirking.

_Tattoo_. Derek thinks and his mind swims with the images of ink on Stiles' pale skin. He moves away and heads back towards his couch, mutters something about a warning that he isn't sure makes sense, and he tries hard to _not_ consider what the tattoo might be.

The rest of the pack have some sort of ink on their skin to mark their allegiance to the pack, to the Hales, to Scott, to Derek - even if he's not their Alpha anymore. Scott is, but Scott made the decision before that they keep the triskellion as a connection, even if it's not _the_ mark. But Stiles, to the best of Derek's knowledge, was not willing - or allowed to - mark his skin.

"Aw, I didn't know you cared," Stiles says with a light tone and Derek almost trips over his own feet.

_If you only knew just how much I do_, Derek thinks and slumps into the couch. His heart skips, and he refuses to look in Scott's direction, fully aware that Scott _knows_. Instead, Derek focuses on Stiles' and Scott's banter and stubbornly pushes away his curiosity about Stiles' tattoo. He's not going to imagine how the triskele would look in between the freckles and on the milky-white skin. He's _not_.


	3. A Touch of Magic

_It's not that Stiles has plans to add another tattoo to his skin. But a picture on the wall in the tattoo parlour catches his eye and changes his mind._

(sketch picture linked in profile)

* * *

The tattoo parlor looks the same a few months later, when Stiles walks in. He told Scott that he needs to go in for a retouch again, because the lines are already fading a little, the top layer peeled off as he'd expected. It wasn't a _lie_, but the moment Stiles is inside and glances at the sketches on the walls, he knows that getting the initials darkened is not the only thing that will happen.

Just before he got the first ink, he talked to Deaton about tattoos, about their meanings and how they worked on werewolves, because Stiles was wondering about them since Derek helped Scott get the bands around his arm. Deaton told him a little about the healing process, about the reasons why the werewolves' bodies reject ink and how the blowtorch makes it possible to leave permanent marks. Not that Stiles particularly _wanted_ to get an anatomy lesson and a detailed description of that process, but he got it regardless.

What he did ask about was Derek's tattoo and mostly its significance when it came to pack. He knew that with them all - including in a strange and unexplainable way, Stiles - being Scott's pack, the triskele didn't carry the meaning that Stiles assigned to it at first. What he didn't expect was Deaton's explanation that it was never a pack symbol at all, that the tattoo was a personal matter to Derek because of the sign's meaning. The three swirls, with their multiple possible meanings, were a mystery to everyone besides Derek, now that most of his family wasn't around to ask. Stiles debated for a while that he could try asking Peter, but somehow he didn't think that was where he'd find answers. Derek was always very vague about the reasons for his tattoo, as Stiles found out.

"Is there a particular reason why you have yours?" Stiles had asked a long time ago.

It had been somewhere between holding down Scott and trying to not freak out at the blowtorch. Derek had paused the burning for a while and Scott had been mostly out of it at that point.

"Not really," Derek had said, and after a moment of thought, had explained about the generic past-present-future and life-death-rebirth meanings.

Stiles knew, when he was talking to Deaton, that there was more than a random and impersonal meaning to Derek's ink, but he found no answers. All the rest of the pack got their own marks since, even Jackson ended up with one when he visited for the holidays, more reminiscent of the Kanima skin than the simplicity of Derek's ink. Isaac's had - unsurprisingly - arrowheads at the tips, and Scott got a little too emotional about it for days after. Kira, on the other hand, went with the softest-looking of them all, her triskele combined with dragons that bore a slight resemblance to a wolf, a fox and a coyote. Lydia was the one who hesitated the longest, fussing about the specific design of her ink, insisting that if it was permanent, it had to be perfect. To no one's surprise, it was hers that ended up the most elaborate, most detailed and most obviously personal. There wasn't a person who would've asked Lydia for the significance, because all those who knew her understood.

It wasn't that Stiles didn't _want to_ get what they began calling "pack ink". It wasn't that he didn't feel like part of the pack, because in a complicated but yet unquestionable way he had been pack before Scott slipped into the role of their Alpha. Stiles just wasn't completely sure what exactly his role was, and if there was one for him.

"You're Stiles," Scott told him just that morning, when the question came up again. "You're my best friend, you're Deaton's apprentice, you're our brains along with Lydia, you're the link to Chris and your Dad."

They're the words that Stiles is mulling over now in the tattoo parlour, looking over intricate details of bands for arms and tramp stamps that he's not even close to contemplating for real. It's what he's thinking of when his eyes land on sketches of branches all too reminiscent of the Nemeton, photos of freshly inked elaborate ribbons. He knows, not only from Scott's words, that he's a link between a lot of things. Stiles is pack, but he's human and also has a touch of magic in him. He is alive, but he carries a touch of death from the loss he's suffered and somewhere in the whole Nogitsune chaos, he was reborn.

"Three," he whispers when his eyes land on a design that's eerily familiar.

It's the image that's burning his eyes when the rough-looking guy who runs the place emerges from behind the curtain at the back and looks at Stiles questioningly.

"You here for the retouch, kid?" The man asks, and heads to the appointments book on the counter.

Stiles nods, but his eyes are still locked on the picture in the corner of the design wall.

"Actually," he says hesitantly then, nodding towards the photo, "do you think you could do another one for me?"

"Sure, it's quiet today, I have nothing for a while," the guy tells him, his eyebrow quirked up with curiosity. "Got the feel for it the last time, did you? It's common, to want to get more once you've been under the needle. But I don't really cater to rash decisions or random whims, so only if you're sure."

"I am," Stiles says with more firmness to his voice this time. "It's something that would mean a lot, not just a random scribble."

He points to the photo in the corner and the guy nods.

"I've never actually inked that one, you know," he explains as he pulls the photo off the wall,"someone brought it in a long time ago, but they never went through with it in the end. I took a photo of the sketch at the time for inspiration."

Stiles lets that sink in, and wonders if there is a reason; if he perhaps knows the person who came in with the request and then chickened out. Instinct tells him that there is something more to the story than he's getting, but he's also sure that the tattooist won't know the back-story.

For a second, Stiles wonders if it would be worth asking Derek, but then he tries to shake that thought off. He can't do that completely, not when the design is what it is, when it makes his mind focus on Derek so much that Stiles ends up shaking his head just to get back to reality. He allows himself, for a moment, to wonder if it _is_ the same one, but then almost laughs at the idea. What are the chances that at some point in the past, Derek - a _born_ were, so likely aware that a regular tattoo would just heal the way Scott's did - had come to this tattoo parlour of all the ones in California, and had left a photo of the sketch behind?

"None," Stiles mumbles to himself as he follows the tattooist into the back room.

"You okay, man?"

Stiles can feel the questioning gaze on him before he looks up from his feet to the guy who is already setting up his equipment.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Stiles says quickly. "I talk a lot, so talking to myself is a thing that happens. I'm good though, really."

"Dude, if I didn't remember you from the last time, I'd seriously question your judgment on this," the guy nods towards the sketch that he's now transferring onto a stencil paper. "But you don't look like you're regretting the first one, so I'll let it slide. Do bring someone else if you go for another one after this, though."

"I wasn't planning on getting more, actually," Stiles admits. "At least not _today_."

"We can set up an appointment for later, if you want," the tattooist pauses his sketching and looks at Stiles.

"No, I'm sure, I'm here," Stiles says with a shrug that he hopes looks nonchalant. "What's the point in waiting when I know I'll get it anyway?"

"Okay. Now, where do you want this one? We'll do the new one first and I'll retouch the initials one after."

Stiles thinks for a moment, at first considering to put the tattoo on his back, right between his shoulder blades. But then he considers the pain of getting anything inked on his spine and shakes it off.

"I want to see it, so…" he says out loud.

"Do you want _others_ to see it, or is this for you?"

"Me," Stiles answers without hesitation. "Just me," he adds more quietly.

Before the tattooist can suggest a spot, Stiles glances at the photo on the sketching table and freezes. There are initials scribbled in the corner and his mind spins at the possibility that the "DH" that he sees has a link to Derek. It would be a hell of a coincidence, though, and Stiles isn't one to believe in those.

"How about your hip?" The tattoo artist says and pulls Stiles out of his thoughts. "I can make it small enough so it won't be too obvious, and it's a good spot to hide if you don't want anyone to see."

"That sounds perfect," Stiles nods. "Actually, can you…?"

He pauses, because the thought he has came from seemingly nothing at all, but it feels like something he should do.

"Could you flip it horizontally? So it's a mirror image of the sketch?"

As he says the words out loud, he feels a calm settle in his chest, easing away the anxiety that was building from preparing himself for the needle. It feels like something slips right into place when he sees the tattooist flip the tracing paper and redraw the design on the other side like Stiles asked.

"Sure, man," the guy nods.

The movements of his hand speed up as he sketches out the three loops of the triskele. The design is no longer looking as familiar as the original drawing did, but there's still a feeling of connection that Stiles can't shake. When the tattoo is traced onto his skin, Stiles' mind almost spins out of control. His blood is buzzing like it's reacting to the touch and to the symbol on his body, and it reminds him of the feeling he gets whenever he works with Deaton on his Spark. The sensation stays with him when he lies down on the chair and all through the process of the tattoo being done.

But from the moment the needle first touches his skin, there's another thought in his mind. _Derek_. He tries to bring up the rational part of his brain, the one that told him that the chances of the sketch being Derek's are slim, but the Spark in him seems to think otherwise. Once he succumbs to the buzzing sounds of the needle, Stiles can almost feel the connection between him and Derek, the one that he's been trying hard not to overanalyze.

"This one seems to settle better than the first one already," the tattoo artist breaks the monotone sounds of the needle's buzz. "_You_ seem to be handling this one better."

"Less of a ticklish spot, I guess," Stiles says with a shrug in a momentary lull of the process.

The tattoo is finished before Stiles can get his mind around the words spoken. Or around what has been happening while the ink was flowing into his skin. His blood is still vibrating with the warmth that seeped into it during the tattooing process and he could swear that he feels it already healing, faster than it should considering he's still human. He _is_ able to direct and control magic, but he doesn't carry it, he never did. Right there, as the artist cleans up the surface of Stiles' skin, it doesn't feel like it, it seems more like the magic that Stiles was always only aware of and able to aim at whatever was needed has embedded itself under his skin along with the tattoo.

"Want to look?"

The question brings Stiles back to reality and he nods, then looks down to the mirror that is held up to his hip. The tattoo is fresh, but his skin isn't as irritated as it was after the first one, the black ink striking against the paleness surrounding it.

"Okay, lay back again, and I'll touch up the other one," the tattoo guy directs. "Shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

Stiles follows the order and relaxes, his mind drifting a little to the triskele, and his blood thrumming with what now feels like a direct connection to the pack. To _Derek_. He felt them before, less than the wolves would obviously, but now, now he's hearing a thumping of a heartbeat that's most definitely not his own. As the tattoo gun's buzzing sounds around him, he can't help think that the new tattoo feels a little like magic.


	4. Mirror Image

_There's something more to Derek's tattoo than anyone knows. Except Stiles, who has made a decision somewhere along the way and now has something he's asking for. Something he wanted for a while._

**_AN: this part isn't new for anyone who saw either my tumblr (there be pics of tattoos on Stiles, see links in my profile) or AO3 (where it's easier to put things up as a verse). for those who didn't, here goes what started off this fic/verse. _**

* * *

"You don't know what you're asking for."

Stiles levels Derek with a glare.

"Researcher, remember?" His voice is steady, even though his palms are sweating and his heart beats so fast that he's basically feeling it vibrate in his chest. "Who, out of the whole pack and anyone connected to it, has read up on most of your history? Most of _werewolf_ history, be it fictional or legitimate? Who spent nights reading the Bestiary? Who had to multiple-erase Google searches every night?"

"It's not…" Derek starts, then looks away from Stiles' face.

"It's not real? It's not … what, Derek?"

"I thought you didn't _want _this," Derek says weakly, in a voice that he normally only uses for the rest of the pack, for Scott, for those he knows can pick up sounds that humans can't.

"I didn't," Stiles admits and watches as Derek's head whips around. "The bite itself? No, that's _not_ what I'm asking for, Der."

"Then maybe…" Derek takes a breath through his mouth, like it's different, like he can keep Stiles' scent away by not breathing through his nose. It doesn't work, of course, and Stiles can see how Derek shudders.

"Maybe it's you who doesn't know what I'm asking for," Stiles whispers and takes a step closer. "Maybe I need to be clearer."

Derek lifts a hand, palm open towards Stiles.

"Stiles, you… y-you don't..." he stumbles over the words.

Stiles can feel frustration rising in his mind, impatience tugging at his nerves. He wonders if Derek is being deliberately obtuse, if he's refusing to understand what Stiles has suggested. There is no way Stiles is the only one who gets it, the only one who feels and fully comprehends why it's the only way.

"I don't know what I want? I don't understand the consequences? I can't possibly be sure?" Stiles doesn't raise his voice, he keeps it quiet because he knows that it will reach Derek anyway.

He speaks quietly because yelling would alert the others, Isaac out in the forest, Scott downstairs, Kira in her bedroom, Lydia outside on the front porch. They're a pack of misfits still, maybe more than they used to be, the ones they lost not replaced by anyone new even though time has passed. Stiles didn't discuss any of this with the rest of them, nor with his Dad. But it's the only way, it's the only thing he wants, the one thing he has wanted for years.

"Do you think… do you remember when you asked about the ink I got on my eighteenth?"

Stiles waits until Derek nods slowly.

"I didn't lie, obviously," Stiles says quietly, "when you asked what it was. When I told you it was connected to my Mom and Dad."

"Stiles, what…" Derek starts but it's Stiles' turn to raise a hand to stop the Alpha.

"You didn't ask when I came back with another one."

"Scott said you went for a retouching," Derek says simply, but his eyebrows show his confusion and curiosity.

"That's what I told him," Stiles says and takes another step closer to Derek. "I didn't want him to lie to you. I didn't want you to figure out he was."

"Stiles, what did you do?" Derek asks, part of his tone angry, another part surprised.

Instead of answering directly, Stiles tugs on the bottom edge of his worn out T-shirt and pulls it up a little. He sees the way Derek's eyes drop down to the exposed skin, and he feels the way the air seems to thicken.

"Do you think I did this without thinking? Without knowing what it could mean?" Stiles says, feeling his voice shake as doubts start spinning in his mind. "Do you _really_ think I don't know what I'm asking for, Derek?"

When Derek doesn't look up again, Stiles follows his gaze down to his own hip. There, just below the edge of the T-shirt, hidden halfway behind the waistband of his jeans, is the "retouch" he lied to Scott about. Because it wasn't a retouch, the first tattoo with his Mom's initials is unchanged higher above it.

Derek doesn't move and Stiles' mind fills with fear for a moment, questions about whether he's the only one who feels it, the only one who _wants_ that connection. But there's not even a hint of regret when his eyes trace the ink. A perfect mirror image of the triskellion from Derek's back, now etched into Stiles' hip, a spot of comfort regardless of what happens next.

"Stiles," Derek breathes out and takes a step towards Stiles, coming within reach. "Stiles, what did you _do_?"

With that question, Derek's hand moves towards the tattoo and he covers it with his palm. The moment their skin touches, Stiles feels like sparks are flying out of his skin, like the tattoo has been set on fire.

"It's not just me, is it?" Stiles asks, his hesitation making his voice barely audible to his own ears. "Tell me I'm not the only one to feel this, Der. That I'm not the only one who held back for years."

"No."

Stiles almost misses Derek's answer. The words that follow are stronger, Derek's eyes lifting to meet Stiles', flashes of blue shimmering against green background.

"I can't… why would you… Stiles why did you do this?"

"Because I'm sure," Stiles answers after a moment, holding his ground. "Because what I'm asking you for isn't what I said I didn't want back when I was in high school. I never wanted to be bitten just for the sake of being a wolf. I still don't. That's _not_ what I want, Der."

"What _do_ you want?"

"You know, Derek. Your wolf knows. The tattoo is…"

"...a mirror image. Did Deaton…?" Derek asks hesitantly.

"He told me about the link it would reinforce," Stiles nods. "Explained about the twin images and how they strengthen what already exists. Derek, this isn't something that wasn't there already. It always has been."

"I know," Derek admits, resignation obvious in his tone. "But you're…"

"I'm not sixteen anymore," Stiles says firmly. "I'm not the same erratic kid. I'm legally an adult now, I _know_ what I'm choosing."

"This isn't the same as humans, though," Derek tries to protest. "I didn't want to… I knew, but I didn't want to bind you to something that there isn't a way out of. Not an easy one, at least."

"It's my decision," Stiles' voice strengthens. "I _choose_ this. You. Us."

Derek presses his palm firmer against the triskellion on Stiles' hip. It's answer enough, combined with the softening look in Derek's eyes. Taking it as an invitation and answer, Stiles steps closer, lifts a hand onto Derek's shoulder and then slides it under Derek's T-shirt until his palm rests in the middle of Derek's tattoo.

_Home_. _Mate_. The words settle in Stiles' mind as the circle completes. _Mine_.


	5. One Step At A Time

_They should have seen the signs, the little moments that were building up to this moment. Maybe they did, but didn't want to think about what they meant. How everything has been leading them to now and to here._

**AN: This part wraps up the main thread for the fic/verse. It will be marked as complete, but there may be later additions to it, if inspiration strikes and I have time. **

* * *

"Oh."

That's all that Derek manages to say then. He can't breathe in, he can't speak because if he did he'd have to take a breath and that would mean taking in Stiles' scent. And that's something he is pretty sure he wouldn't be able to handle right then.

"Derek," Stiles whispers, and it's so quiet even Derek has trouble catching it.

He's frozen in place, unable to move, eyes wide open as he stares at Stiles and tries to process everything.

The dream was the first time, though for a long time Stiles chalked it up as another one of his nightmares. Even when they went for Derek in Mexico, he didn't think of it, didn't connect the dots, didn't _realize_. It wasn't until later, when Derek was the one who told Stiles about it, about the dream they shared without knowing that they did.

"My subconscious reached for you," Derek explained.

"Why me?" Stiles asked cautiously, afraid of what the answer would be, knowing what he wished for but unwilling to say it out loud.

"You'd been there," Derek replied. "I think… I think it was because I knew you'd get it, that you'd be able to help me find out if I was dreaming or awake."

"The finger counting," Stiles nodded. "That's how you knew."

It wasn't the reason he wanted to hear. But when Stiles looked at Derek, he also knew that what Derek said out loud wasn't the whole reason for why his mind, when in danger, reached for Stiles.

When they found Derek, Stiles was the only one who knew immediately. It wasn't only because he remembered Derek from before the fire. It wasn't because Stiles had looked at the old school photos and files when they had researched the Hales' past. He knew, because the moment Derek was out of the tomb, the moment Stiles laid eyes on what was only a slumped body between Braeden and Scott, he felt like he could breathe again.

"Is that him?" Malia asked.

Stiles felt everyone's eyes on him, waiting for confirmation, and for a split second, he wondered if everyone else knew about what Derek meant to him.

That Derek, the one from before the fire, from before _Kate_, didn't know Stiles, but when their eyes met, Stiles couldn't stop the shiver running down his spine. That was the first time that he thought of Derek as _his_. He couldn't put into words _what_ Derek was to him, couldn't explain it yet, but that moment, looking at each other, Stiles knew that the recognition was about more than just their faces.

"How do you deal with it?" Derek asked, his voice small and broken.

"Deal with what?" Stiles asked back.

"Being human," Derek continued quietly. "Being _breakable_ but not being afraid."

Stiles stopped the pacing around the room that he had been occupying himself with from the moment everyone had left the room.

"Is that why you were always so eager to throw yourself head first into battles?" Stiles asked after a pause. "Because you knew you'd heal?"

"I don't know how to…"

"... take care of yourself? How to put your life before someone else's? Because you always thought you were less vulnerable than others? Including the other wolves?"

Stiles knew then that his voice was rising too high, that his anger that had been suppressed for a long time was coming to the surface.

"You're an idiot, Derek Hale," he said after a moment of calming himself down.

"Stiles, I… I don't know how to _not_ be a werewolf," Derek said with a resigned tone. "I don't know who I am without all that."

Stiles paused then, looked at Derek cautiously, then walked to the couch and sat down next to Derek.

"You're still you," he said firmly. "Der, look at me," he ordered and waited until their eyes met. "You're the same stubborn, protective, _caring_ Derek Hale. You're still smart, still loyal, still willing to risk everything to protect the people you love."

"But what if I _can't_?"

"Then you try," Stiles said with a small smile tugging on his lips. "You fight, you investigate, you help. You figure out things that others can't."

"That's what you're good at," Derek whispered. "That's what you have always done for us."

"I could do with some help sometimes, you know?" Stiles said and grinned. "You're not the worst option for an assistant to the brains of this whole thing."

_Partner_, Derek wanted to say then but bit the word back. Instead he nodded and stayed silent, wishing he could still hear the reassuring and calming beat of Stiles' heart.

"You're not planning on coming back," she said to him as a statement, not a question.

"Not alive," Derek replied, trying to not let the shiver of his voice show too much.

He was human, then, and had no plans to stop fighting for as long as he possibly could. Scott was in danger, and Derek knew that the pack, the territory would need the Alpha, more than it ever needed him. He figured out fast that Peter was behind the plan and that Derek losing his wolf powers was a tool to make it easier to get to Scott.

Braeden was… at that point, Derek didn't know what exactly she was. He knew he wanted her to find Kate so he could find out and maybe reverse the effects of whatever Kate had done to him. He knew that she was a nice enough distraction, especially since his usual ones weren't available. He went to the Stilinskis' house often enough to realize that someone else claimed it as their territory. So, in Derek's eyes, he had every reason to fight until the end and no reason to cling to life.

But in the end he came back. They saved each other, they made it out. Most of them, at least. Scott became _his_ Alpha, and Derek settled in nicely to pack life, content with being the link to the Hales and their history in Beacon Hills once Peter was finally removed as a threat.

When that happened, Malia left in search of her mother. Breaden left as well, since there were better sources of money and unfinished business calling her name. Derek didn't waste long on wondering why exactly he didn't care.

Stiles started coming over more often, under the guise of research, of getting Derek's help with piecing the Hale history and the history of Beacon Hills together. Scott, as the Alpha, took over everything that was left of the shattered pieces of balance, and he found that Stiles was well on his way to becoming his Emissary - the Nogitsune had targeted Stiles for that very reason, as some sort of a test. The loft, the whole building became the pack's base, more so when Isaac finally came back and Derek helped him settle in a part of it. Kira moved in a while later, when her parents decided to move back to New York after all. Eventually each of the pack members had a place for themselves, whether it was a separate studio like Isaac's or a bedroom and a study like Lydia.

Now, though, Derek is in the main loft, the one that has _finally_ been fixed up and has not been destroyed by an attack in months. It's peaceful, and yet when Derek takes a breath, he feels like his blood is vibrating in his veins.

"Stiles," he breathes out, and his fingers twitch against the skin they're resting on.

"Say something," Stiles mumbles into Derek's neck, his fingers shaking against the skin on Derek's back. "Anything, please."

"Fuck, Stiles, I…" Derek whispers, and he moves just enough to see Stiles' face.

He doesn't move his hand from the mark on Stiles' hip, but lifts the other and moves Stiles' chin up just enough so their eyes can meet.

"Are you sure?" Derek asks then, though he can _feel_ the answer.

His blood is singing, burning under his skin; he can feel it pulsing across the swirls of his tattoo under Stiles' fingers as they start to trace the black ink by memory. He can feel the way Stiles' skin is warmer, almost burning where the image of Derek's triskele is etched into his hip.

"Have been, for a while," Stiles replies then, and a smile starts tugging on the corner of his lips. "I didn't think the ink would react though, not like this," he nods almost imperceptibly towards Derek's hand.

"I never would have…"

"Asked, I know," Stiles interrupts when Derek's voice shakes. "I figured you wouldn't. I wanted this for myself, regardless of _us_. It was when the magic showed itself that I … it made me realize why."

"_Stiles_," Derek breathes the name out, his voice rough and almost pleading, though he doesn't know what he's asking for.

It's Stiles who provides the answer moments later, when he takes a breath and with a muttered "oh fuck it" leans forward and brushes his lips against Derek's.


End file.
